


Bad Parts In

by 50artists



Series: Derry, Maine [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 00:53:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20844860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/50artists/pseuds/50artists
Summary: "Eddie, you can't seriously be telling me you didn't notice. I was like, the biggest stereotypical pigtail-pulling asshole the world's ever seen. I used to literally call you babe.""But that was a joke," says Eddie. "You were making fun of me.""Nope, just using humor as a coping mechanism."





	Bad Parts In

**Author's Note:**

> btw i didn't tag 'graphic violence' in the warning cause like, nothing _super_ bad happens, but there are mild descriptions of gore and eddie's death scene from the film so here's a warning if that bothers you 🌻 anyway i have watched this film multiple times and still think eddie should live so fuck it. guess i'll just write the true ending myself.

Richie sees the future in the deadlights.

Now he understands why it upset Bev so much (aside from the general upset that comes with watching your friends' deaths in gruesome detail) - it is so viscerally _ real_, like no dream or hallucination or drug-induced delusion could ever be. Eddie dies in his arms, blood trickling thick and black from his chest. Richie has to be dragged kicking and screaming all the way back up through the caverns and the tunnels and sewers and the basement stairs and even as the house splinters and collapses in on itself Richie is still screaming, and -

He barely snaps out of it in time to pull Eddie away.

Richie is winded from the fall, his head still glazed and coordination off, so it is a miracle he achieves what he does; using all his strength he manages to drag Eddie down, twists them both out of the way, and he almost, _ almost _ succeeds.

Pennywise's claw pierces straight through the side of his hip and he is screaming before he even registers the pain. God damn, his voice will be hoarse after this. If there is an after. Somewhere above him Eddie is shouting and the claw is pulled out and, well, at least he wasn't being dragged up to dangle in the air like Eddie, because that probably would've done him in for good. Instead he twists up on the rocky ground and moans and wails, draws in quick pants of breath, feels Eddie's frantic hands patting around the wound (which is seriously not helpful) and, more distant, the concerned sounds of the other Losers. "Go," Richie manages to say through grit teeth, "go, kill that fucking clown for me, alright?"

He takes some solace in the fact that Eddie, just like Richie when the reverse scenario went down, clings to him while the others sprint away. Eddie only leaves as Pennywise starts to shrink and die. Then the roof is caving in and this time, rather than fighting, Richie lets himself fall into blackness as his friends carry him to the light.

~*~*~

Eddie, to put it lightly, does not like blood.

He does not like injuries. He does not like the thought of needles or razors or accidentally stepping on a rusty nail.

The sight of Richie in a hospital bed is difficult for him to stomach. No one else seems to have the same issue; the Losers are still buzzing with the high of killing Pennywise, chatting and laughing where they've set up camp in a circle around Richie's bed (turns out whatever showbiz contract he's on provides top-notch insurance, and he's got a room to himself, with a flatscreen TV and everything) but it's all too much for Eddie. The IV hooked up to Richie's arm and the slight puckering where it enters his skin; the giant dressing on the side of his body, not quite covered by the flimsy hospital gown; even the pillow they've put between his legs so that he stays in the right position makes Eddie feel nauseous, just from the implication of innards, of bone and sinew and muscle.

"Eddie," Ben says gently to him when there's a lull in the conversation, "do you want to go outside?"

"I better not. I mean, Richie -"

"He's not gonna wake up for a while," he reassures him, "the doctor said an hour, at least. Maybe you should take a breather."

"Yeah, you're looking kinda green," adds Mike. "Richie's a healthier colour than you right now, and he's just had four hours of surgery."

"Fine, fine," says Eddie, and he doesn't even have the energy to feign reluctance as he all but sprints to the door.

Out in the corridor is worse, though, because it's full of sick people, and this is just like his nightmares all over again. He can only breathe once he makes it to the parking lot, and then he _ still _ can't relax because he sees a payphone and realises there's something he's forgotten.

He needs to call Myra.

Normally he wouldn't use a public phone, or at the very least he'd want to wrap it with tissue, or maybe spray it with something sanitising before touching it… But Eddie has been vomited all over by a leper from his childhood fears today, he's been shoulder-deep in sewage water and breathed in hospital air probably filled with millions of antibiotic resistant bacteria, and he's out of emotional stamina. He punches Myra's number into the phone. The booth smells of urine and stale beer.

"Eddie?" Her voice buzzes down the line and his name sounds like an accusation in her mouth. "Eddie, is that you?"

"Yes," he says, and then doesn't know what to follow with.

Luckily Myra can speak enough for the both of them. "Where are you? You promised me, you _ said _ that you'd call me every few hours! What happened?"

"I'm fine," Eddie lies.

"Then why haven't you called?"

"I've been busy." It's strange that Eddie only notices now, but his left hand is bare as it grips the greasy phone; his ring must have come off in all the commotion, and he didn't even notice. "I got stabbed in the face."

"You _ what_? I told you that you shouldn't have left the city, Eddie, I -"

"Also," he interrupts, "I met Richie Tozier. The comedian. We were friends, you know, as teenagers. There was a whole gang of us, we called ourselves the Loser's Club, and I'm at the hospital with them right now."

For a blessed moment, the line goes silent. When Myra speaks again she has lost the shrill tone, and sounds more dangerous, her voice slower. "I thought you didn't remember your childhood. I thought you had retrograde amnesia."

"Well, I remember now."

"So," she says, "you've been stabbed in the face, you've ignored all my messages and calls, you've magically regained your memories, and now you're at hospital with a comedian you know I hate. I see."

"Good," says Eddie, "I'm glad you see."

He hangs up and leaves the booth before Myra can try to call back. Do modern payphones even accept incoming calls? It doesn't matter. He finds a bench, closes his eyes, and resists the itchy temptation to pick at his newly-stitched cheek wound.

~*~*~

Richie wakes up to a nice haze, the sort only induced by medical-grade painkillers, and it takes him a while to realise he's in a hospital bed surrounded by a slightly claustrophobic number of people. Everything below his waist feels numb. "Ngh," he manages to say, then someone is squeezing his hand and someone else presses a delicate palm against his forehead.

"Richie?" Bill's voice rings around his head. "How are you doing, man?"

It takes a disproportionate amount of willpower for Richie to actually focus his eyes, and the scene still remains blurry. The shape above him could be Bill, or it could be some freaky Pennywise trick, or maybe a weirdly shaped houseplant; Richie slaps a hand to his cheek and finds that his glasses are missing. "Can't fucking see," he mumbles, "'s that you, Bill?"

"We're all here," says Mike, and yes, the scene is becoming a bit more clear, although Richie still can't actually _ see _ for shit without his prescription. "We did it, Richie."

"We, uh, killed the fucking clown?"

"That's right."

Richie takes a few seconds to process this. It's foggy, but he definitely remembers Pennywise deflating like a sad little balloon. "Good."

"Do you want anything? Water?"

"I want…" Richie trailed off. "Shit, what happened to Eddie? Is he okay?" Richie panics a bit, starts to struggle (he sees Eddie with a hole in his chest, Eddie dribbling blood and whispering his name as Pennywise rips him away) until Ben leans over him and holds his arms, grip warm but uncompromising.

"Stop, you'll rip your IV."

"But Eddie -"

"Eddie's fine. You saved him, remember?"

"Oh, yeah. Jesus." Richie relaxes back into his pillows. After a few seconds, Ben lets go.

He feels woozy after the exertion. A nurse comes into the room, tells him that he's had a hip replacement (that explains the numbness of his lower body) and talks about fluids and recovery rates and physiotherapy and the likelihood of needing revision surgery, and Richie hopes that his friends are listening, because he is not. At one point she says he's not allowed to have 'vigorous sex' for the next eight weeks and he giggles, earning himself a raised eyebrow.

"Where's Eddie?" He asks as soon as the nurse leaves. "Not to sound ungrateful, I'm glad all you guys are here, but I'm still a bit drugged up and I'd really like to see that he's alive, y'know. Kinda think you might all be a clown hallucination. No offence."

Beverly shrugs. "None taken. Eddie was getting weirded out by all the hospital shit. I texted him when you woke up, he'll be back soon."

"Eddie lost his phone," says Mike.

"Oh. Whoops."

"Just go to sleep, Rich," Ben says, "I can see you're tired. Eddie will be back soon, and then we'll all be together."

"He better be," Richie mutters, and once he lets himself, it's all too easy to slide back into the darkness.

~*~*~

Eddie is still sat outside the hospital, and his life seems to be collapsing before him.

He is married to a woman he hates. Now that he really remembers his mother - not just from the occasional dinner at Christmas and Thanksgiving, but the years and years and _ years _ of living under the same roof as her, of taking fake drugs for made-up illnesses and tip-toeing as he tried to leave the house, years of lies and passive aggression and fear - the thought of going back to Myra makes him want to scratch his eyes out. Is this his life? A fucked up, hypochondriac cycle of people who want to control his every move? The worst part is that he _ doesn't _ hate Myra. He knows that she is well intentioned; she checks on him constantly because she doesn't want anything bad to happen. She is controlling not out of malice but out of love. She would never do the things his mother did - lie about his health and feed him placebos, lock him in the house on a whim, scream at him and then cry and make him promise never to leave - but the resemblance is too uncanny, and Eddie can't face it, can't even contemplate going back to her. It fills him with revulsion.

So he sits on a bench outside a hospital and holds his head in his hands, because shit, he wasted the last two decades of his life.

That's where Beverly finds him, and at first she looks a bit pissed off, but when she sees the (no doubt pitiful) expression on Eddie's face she softens. "What's up, Eddie?" she asks. "You look even worse than before."

"I hate my wife, I've wasted decades doing shit I don't even care about with other people I hate, and I can't stand the thought of going back to my old life. I have no idea what I'm gonna do."

"Ah," she says, "that." 

"Yeah."

Rather than speaking, she lights a cigarette (and offers one to Eddie, who politely refuses), and joins him in staring at nothing. The high whine of an ambulance sounds somewhere in the distance.

"I think," she says after a few minutes, "some of us struggled more than others. You and me, Eddie, maybe we _ needed _ those memories we lost. When we couldn't remember our fucked up parents but we still had those patterns of behaviour in our brains, we were just sucked into the same cycle all over again. It left us vulnerable. Now we're both married to our worst nightmares."

"Yeah, I guess. But my mom wasn't on the same level as your dad, Bev - and Myra really isn't that bad."

She just shrugs. "It's not a competition, is it?"

"I guess not."

They both stare at nothing for a while longer.

"There's something else, too," Eddie admits in a rush, because if he doesn't he feels like he's going to explode. "I thought Richie was going to die. I really did. When we were just stood at the side of the road, waiting for an ambulance, and there was so much blood everywhere - I really thought he was dead and it felt like the end of the world. You know how you hung onto that poem?"

"January embers," Beverly recites, "my heart burns there too. But I didn't actually remember the poem, I just sort of felt a hole where the memory should be."

"Yeah, that's what it felt like. An absence. For me, it, uh..." Eddie stumbled as he tried to finish his sentence, but he felt ridiculous, broke off and pretended to look at his fingers in great detail.

"It was Richie?" Bev asked.

"Well. Maybe."

"That's okay, you know. I mean, it's not 1988 anymore, no one's gonna get on your case if you like guys - none of us Losers, anyway."

"I feel like Richie might be _ slightly _ weirded out," Eddie says dryly. "Like oh, hey, we've not spoken for decades and you're the straightest man I know, but it turns out I have been subconsciously in love with you since we were teenagers. I dunno, might make things a bit awkward."

"I'm sorry," says Beverly, "just to clarify, Richie Tozier is the straightest man you know?"

"Dude, have you seen his comedy? It's all, 'I love fucking chicks while drinking beer and watching football'."

"You mean the material that Richie doesn't write himself?'

"I see what you're implying," says Eddie, "and it's not helpful. I know I'm a lost cause and I'm only telling you this because I'm so repressed I'm worried I'm going to have an aneurysm. Allow me to wallow in self pity, please."

Bev shakes her head. She keeps the cigarette clasped daintily between her lips, even though it's burnt to a stub. "No can do. The straightest man you know has specifically requested your presence at his bedside. He kinda freaked when he woke up and you weren't there."

"Oh, shit." Eddie says. "I'm the worst."

"He's napping again now. Come up with me, he'll probably rip his IV out to search for you if he wakes up and we're not back."

~*~*~

It's a test of Eddie's will to walk back through the hospital, back through all the germs and coughing and sad, lonely people, but he makes it to Richie's room just in time to hear a commotion from inside. "You're lying to me!" Richie is shouting, and it's audible even through the walls. "You're that fucking clown, you're all that -"

Eddie pushes the door open and everyone's eyes snap to him. "Thank God you're here," says Mike, "Richie, stop hyperventilating and look who it is."

Richie goes silent. His eyes are intense as he looks Eddie up and down, and Eddie feels oddly self-conscious, as if he's on display. "Are you really Eddie?" He asks.

"Am I really - yeah, asshole, who the fuck else do I look like?"

Richie relaxes. "Always such a sweet talker, babe."

"Why were you asking for me?"

"Just a little vision from the deadlights," Richie says, "y'know, you getting killed horribly by Pennywise, dying in my arms. The usual stuff. Looks like I managed to dodge it, though."

Bev looks sad. "I've seen that. The one where Eddie gets the spike through his chest?"

Richie just nods.

"Uh," Eddie says uncomfortably, all too aware that he's not good at reassuring people (and uncannily reminded of the way his mother needed constant reassurance that he was healthy, though he _ knows _ it's not a fair comparison, knows that Richie has legitimate reason to be concerned), "well, I'm fine, so. Don't worry."

The truth is, selfish as it sounds, Eddie hates this. He doesn't want to be in hospital. He doesn't want to see the manic glint in Richie's eyes, and he _ definitely _ doesn't want to think about Richie's injury, about the fact Richie nearly died, because it makes him so anxious he could puke.

"Come over here," says Richie.

Cautiously, Eddie approaches, and then bats away Richie's hand when he reaches for the hem of his shirt. "Hey, what the hell, dude?"

"Please just let me look at your chest."

"No!"

"But I saw Pennywise stab you! I wanna check it's really you and you're okay, Eddie, baby. I'm in hospital, I just got outta surgery. Take pity on me."

Eddie steps back. "Jesus Christ, Richie, you're not guilting me into stripping in the middle of your hospital room!"

"You know what?" Richie huffs. "I don't even need to look any more." He drops his hand back onto the hospital bed and turns away, as dramatically as his limited movement will allow, and Eddie feels a rush of offence.

"What? What's that supposed to mean, you don't care if I die?"

"Nah, I just know that fucking clown could never capture your whiny little bitch personality so perfectly." 

Bill laughs, and doesn't even have the decency to look ashamed when Eddie glares at him. 

~*~*~

By the third day of bed rest, Richie is practically vibrating with unspent energy. "Stop that," Eddie snaps at him when he starts trying to do his exercises (which hurt like a bitch) for the fifth time that day, "they said not to overdo it, asshole, or it's gonna take even longer before you can walk."

"It was supposed to be today," Richie whines, "the nurse said three days."

"The nurse gave you an estimate, but the physiotherapist is the _ expert _, and she said you've gotta wait 'till tomorrow."

"But I'm bored."

"Well, I'm bored too, so could you quit bitching for one second and let us watch the movie?"

It's _ Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull_, and Eddie is a hypocrite, because less than five minutes ago he'd got so passionate ranting about the improbability of surviving a nuclear explosion in a fridge that Richie has fallen behind on the plot. Oh well. He sits back and tries to appreciate the view of Harrison Ford, but he can't relax, can't stop drumming his fingers and shifting around in bed. Eddie is sat on the edge of the mattress and Richie is hyper aware of where their thighs press together (on Richie's good side, of course). Is this torture? Has he actually died, and gone to hell? Richie knows (can remember, which is still weird) that this is exactly how he used to feel as a teenager - Eddie is unbearably close, and he wants nothing more than to reach over and grab his hand, or lean his head on Eddie's shoulder, or do _ something, _but Richie doesn't quite dare push past what Eddie has already allowed. God, he's just as cowardly as when he was a kid.

By some unspoken agreement, Eddie is the one who's been assigned to 24/7 Richie duty. Probably drew the short straw. Bill is already back with his wife, and Ben cleared off to catch up with his workload. Mike and Beverly are still in Derry - although Mike is gleefully making travel plans whenever he speaks, and it sounds like Bev is going to stay with Ben while she sorts out a divorce, so Derry will soon be down to two Losers. Just him and Eddie.

Eddie who has a wife.

Here's the thing: when they were kids, Richie had such complicated feelings about Eddie that he shoved so deep inside himself, they became almost a part of his identity. Now it is twenty seven years later and he's a grown-ass man but Jesus, it feels like nothing has changed. It's all too much. It's not enough. Richie is literally going to explode if he has to sit in this hospital bed with Eddie pressed up against him for a minute longer.

"So, tell me about your wife," he says, and instantly regrets it when Eddie winces but, shit, it's too late to back out now. "Isn't she pissed that you're babysitting me?"

"She's not my boss, dude."

"Well yeah, despite appearances, I know she's not _ actually _ your mom -"

"Beep fucking beep, Richie," says Eddie. "Why can't we watch the film? Remind me again why we can't be quiet for literally five minutes and watch Indiana Jones and Shia La Beouf fight Cate Blanchett?"

"Cause I wanna know about your wife."

Eddie fumbles with the remote and pauses the movie. He seems disproportionately angry - yes, Richie meant to rile him up, but only to provoke a response, not open whatever can of worms he's stumbled across here. "If you must know," Eddie says, "I haven't spoken to her beyond a five minute phone call to let her know I'm not literally dead in a ditch, and Bev's gonna help me sort out stuff for a divorce. To be honest, Richie, we never loved each other and our marriage was a toxic sham."

"Well, shit."

"That's it? No smartass comments?"

"Jesus, dude, it's not like I knew." Now Richie really feels like a dickhead, because Eddie is clearly upset, and Richie's not supposed to be the one who makes him feel like shit. Awkwardly, he squeezes his shoulder. "Uh, it'll be okay, Eds," he says.

"No, it won't. Don't you get what I'm saying? I have _ nothing, _ my life from the last twenty seven years was all a waste and I'm starting again from nothing."

Richie searches for something reassuring to say. "You like your boring job, right? Risk dialysis?"

"Risk _ analysis,_ idiot. Shit, I've probably been fired by now, too. You'll see, I'm gonna die homeless and alone"

The thought of Eddie dying stings. "Hey, don't joke about that."

Eddie's breathing is starting to sound harsh. "You think I'm joking? I'm fucked, Richie. Jesus, I should just go back to my wife, apart from at this point I think that would be even worse than my inevitable death, because I've re-remembered my whole bullshit childhood!" They're still pressed up against each other on the bed, Richie's hand sitting uselessly on Eddie's shoulder, and through their closeness he can feel the way Eddie's beginning to shake. "Fuck! Oh God, now I can't breath, Rich, look what you've done."

~*~*~

Eddie does not have asthma.

He _ does _ suffer from panic attacks. The symptoms include shortness of breath and a painful, constricting feeling in his chest, and a coping mechanism he developed as a kid was using an inhaler. Even though Eddie's now a middle aged man who knows he doesn't have asthma, he still itches for an inhaler at the first sign of panic.

Unfortunately his inhaler is ash under the collapsed pile of the Neibolt house. His only option is to cling to Richie like a lifeline, and he knows he's being weird, but Eddie can't help himself.

It takes a while, but Richie's a surprisingly good comforter when he's not constantly running his mouth. Nice and solid. Warm, too.

"Sorry," Eddie says once the worst has passed.

"It's cool, man, I get it."

Eddie sniffs. "Bull. How would you understand?"

"Owch," says Richie, "you wound me, Eddie. I can be sensitive, too. I have depths."

"You're like Stan and Bill though, aren't you. Got everything you wanted in life. Must be such a fucking chore for you to be back in Derry. Meanwhile I'm just realising that I never moved on past my stupid childhood fear and I've let it ruin the last three decades."

"Okay, well, don't feel too sorry for yourself, my life isn't perfect either."

"What's wrong, Richie? Are you too rich and famous? Too many hot girlfriends?"

"No," Richie snaps, "shut up, you dickhead."

Eddie clamps his mouth shut. His heart is still beating a bit too quickly, but now it's for a variety of reasons, not least the way his and Richie's faces are barely inches apart. Richie looks as though he's considering something. It's rare enough for Tozier to actually _ think _ before he speaks, so Eddie keeps quiet, lets him figure it out, tries not to stare at the way his eyelashes curve or the shape of his mouth or the hundred other little details of his face that Eddie wants to memorise forever.

"I never moved on from my stupid childhood fear, either," says Richie.

"Oh."

"It's - God, it's been twenty seven years and It's dead, but I'm still scared, you know? I mean, like, we've killed the fucking clown, shouldn't we be brave now?"

"Dude," says Eddie, "you're telling _ me. _ I'm more scared of my wife than I was of the alien monster that eats people, you can't tell me that's not fucked up."

"Yeah. And I'm more scared of…" Richie makes a frustrated noise, sits up straighter and winces as his hip shifts. "I'm just gonna say it. Fuck it."

"Okay."

They sit in silence for a second.

"Eddie Kaspbrak, I'm gay."

They stare at each other. Eddie's not quite sure what's happening on his face, but he knows it's probably complex. Richie just looks scared. "This better not be a bad joke," Eddie warns, "'cause that would be in really fucking bad taste, Rich."

"C'mon, man, I'm serious."

"Okay. Alright, cool. I mean, good for you." Eddie's heart is pounding so hard it must be audible. "Wait, but what about all that stuff about women in your shows?"

"You know I don't actually write that shit."

Beverly's knowing face comes back to haunt him. _ "You mean the material that Richie doesn't write himself?" _ she asks smugly with that damn cigarette between her lips.

Well, fuck it, there's not gonna be a better time than this. "You know," Eddie says slowly, "I've actually known I was bisexual for a while. It wasn't really relevant, though - I mean, I was already married to a woman - but yeah. Me too. Kinda."

"Shit," says Richie, "so we were both little queers."

"Richie! Don't be a dick." It ruins the moment, but at least it allows some of the tension to deflate out of Eddie. He rests his skull back against the headboard. "Funny how the world works, huh."

"Yeah, twelve year old Richie would be freaking the fuck out right now."

"Were you really that lonely?" Eddie asks, and he feels irrationally guilty, because even though he had also been twelve and deeply closeted he never felt alone, never felt like he needed more than the Losers around him.

"Oh," says Richie, "no, I meant that I'd be psyched _ you _ were into dudes."

"What? Why?"

"Uh," Richie looks at him like he's stupid, "because I had the world's giantest, most obvious crush on you?"

"What?"

"Eds, you can't seriously be telling me you didn't notice. I was like, the biggest stereotypical pigtail-pulling asshole the world's ever seen. I used to literally call you babe."

"But that was a joke," says Eddie. "You were making fun of me."

"Nope, just using humour as a coping mechanism."

"Shit." Eddie thinks about this. Tries to process it. He's sitting in an uncomfortable hospital bed with a man who just confessed to both being gay and having a childhood crush on him, Eddie Kaspbrak, the most neurotic, unbearable little shit of a kid ever to live. Yeah, he thinks, 12 year old Eddie would probably be freaking out too. If only they hadn't left Derry. For a painful moment Eddie lets himself imagine it: growing up with Richie, never forgetting his stupid face and his stupid smile, not marrying Myra. Maybe, if he played his cards right, he could've ended up with Richie instead. It would have been nice, he thinks. Minus the killer clown.

~*~*~

Mike visits that evening, and he's brought takeaway pizza, so Richie sings his praises (literally) and they all watch another film, because there's nothing else to do in Richie's prison cell of a room. If Mike thinks there's anything strange about both of them huddled together on a tiny bed definitely not made for two adult men, at least he doesn't mention it.

"I've booked a flight," he says after the credits roll. "I'm going to Florida tomorrow."

"Good for you," says Eddie, and he genuinely means it. "Where are you going?"

"Yeah, you've gotta see Disneyland," Richie adds.

"It's a tour all the way from Orlando to Miami. I'm gonna see the sights, man, finally get away from this town. Sometimes it feels like Derry's the whole world. It's difficult to imagine life outside."

Richie grimaces. "Mike, that's so depressing. Derry's a shithole and I'm sick of it after less than a week. Get your ass to Florida ASAP."

Still, there's something sad about saying goodbye to Mike, even though it's not forever, this time. Eddie walks out to the parking lot with him and sees his car already full of suitcases. The night is cool and dark around them. "Hey," Mike says before he drives off, "you'll take care of Richie, yeah?"

"Of course I will," says Eddie.

Mike looks at him. After a pause, he nods. "Of course you will. Take care of yourself, too."

Eddie feels oddly exposed. He steps back, offers Mike an awkward wave. "Have fun in Florida."

The car drives into the night and Eddie retreats back into the hospital. He still hates the place, all the corridors and the infection and illness, but at least Richie's room has started to feel like a haven.

~*~*~

Richie knew that physiotherapy would be tough.

He'd had his whole hip shattered apart inside his body, for God's sake, and even with his shiny new metal-and-ceramic bone, surgery to repair the soft tissue damage, and prescription painkillers, he still felt the deep burn of pain almost constantly.

Still, his first steps are a new kind of excruciating.

Eddie's not here - Richie knew it wouldn't be fair to ask, because even though Eddie pretends not to be squeamish about his injury, he carefully avoids looking at the right side of Richie's body, and often leaves the room while doctors are talking. So he's alone with the physiotherapist, who is supposedly very good, but Richie just thinks she's heartless. She's at least a decade younger than Richie and has her hair scraped back into a severe ponytail. "Not like that," she says as Richie tries to minimise the pain, "you've got to keep your leg aligned. Walk on the outside of your foot, don't let yourself go knock-kneed."

Richie hisses in a breath and tries again, this time with his leg straight. It hurts. He manages to take a step, but damn, when he puts his weight on his hip it feels as though everything's about to shatter apart. It's so painful he can feel himself starting to sweat.

"Good," says the physiotherapist. "Can you take another step?"

She's a monster. She's worse than Pennywise and Bowers combined.

It seems to take hours before he's finally released, and they put him in a wheelchair to escort him out. Eddie's waiting for him with a suitcase and a worried smile. "Hey, Richie," he says, "you look like shit."

"She's a torturer, Eds."

"Don't call me Eds." He takes over pushing Richie's chair, and they both shiver as they finally leave the hospital and hit the open air, which seems almost too crisp after four days of air-conditioned hospital funk. "So, can you walk again?"

"I managed a whole five steps."

"How long is it supposed to take before you're fully healed?"

Richie sighs. "It'll be a few weeks before I walk for any real distance, and even after that, it's gonna be like, six months before I'm properly better. Then in fifteen years' time I'm gonna need _ this _hip replacing 'cause the synthetic ones don't last as long."

"Fifteen years is a long time," reasons Eddie, and it throws Richie off to have a voice coming from behind his back - he wants to see Eddie's face. "We'll be in our fifties. You'd probably need a hip replacement by then anyway."

"Maybe _ you _ would, old man, but I'm young and fit."

"Fuck off, Richie, I've been living with you for the last few days and I've seen the shit you eat."

"Touché."

Eddie helps him into the car, then shouts and swears his way through the process of learning to fold up his wheelchair. "You know it's an inanimate object," Richie says through the window as he watches Eddie wrestle with a wheel that keeps swinging out of place, "you're not gonna intimidate it, no matter how many bad words you call it."

"You can fuck off too," Eddie says through grit teeth, but to his credit he never actually complains about having to help Richie, and in the end he decides the half-folded chair is 'good enough' and throws it into the trunk, and then they're off.

Since they came out to each other, there's a new tension between him and Eddie. Maybe it's all in Richie's head. But he's experiencing more moments like this, where they are both quiet and yet acutely aware of each other, and he watches Eddie's face in profile and tries not to feel guilty when Eddie catches him staring. It isn't as though this could go anywhere. Even though Eddie is bi, he never hints at any interest in Richie (who can blame him?), so it's best not to push it, best to be happy with the friendship they have. At the end of the day, Richie doesn't have a great romantic track record. He just needs to ignore the feeling in his chest that makes him want to scream any time Eddie is within touching distance. This is fine.

He can't stop staring, though.

They've rented a small bungalow on the outskirts of Derry, because Richie can't exactly make it up the Townhouse stairs. It will only be for a week or two. Both of them are still pretending their real lives had been put on pause, and by some unspoken agreement they don't mention wives or stand-up comedy or how angry their respective bosses are going to be. When they arrive Eddie unfolds the chair and helps Richie back into it, then busies himself unpacking while Richie lounges around watching TV, then makes them both dinner. It's horribly domestic. Richie tries to alleviate some of his tension by flicking food at Eddie, which predictably makes him start shouting and calling Richie a child and an ingrate, but even _ that _ is reassuring in its familiarity. 

~*~*~

Of course, something has to crack.

Richie knows he's having a nightmare; that doesn't make it any less real. 

Eddie's crouched over him. "I did it, Richie, I really think I killed it!" he says, and Richie knows what's gonna happen but he's not quick enough, not fast enough, not strong enough. The claw rips through the front of Eddie's body like he's made of papier-mâché. There's blood. Blood dribbles out of his mouth, blood cascades down his chest. He looks dead into Richie's eyes.

"Richie…" 

Richie tries to move, tries to do _ something _, but he's frozen. All his muscles are useless.

"Richie," Eddie says again, "Richie, Richie, for fuck's sake Richie, wake up!"

With a gasp he jolts awake, and it's like a shot of adrenaline through the chest, even though he's actually just laid in bed, tangled up in his sweaty sheets and laid in a position that _ really _ isn't helping his hip. He rolls onto his back, panting.

Eddie's silhouette is crouched over the side of his bed. He doesn't say anything, and they both breathe into the darkness for a second, and Richie is still half in the dream world and he can't take his eyes off Eddie for even a second because he's so scared that this isn't real. Wordlessly, he reaches out and presses his hand into the middle of Eddie's chest, checking that his body is whole and not ripped out of place by Pennywise's claw. Eddie doesn't complain this time.

"Are you okay?" Eddie asks after a few long minutes. "Do you want anything? I can get you a drink, or help you sit up, anything you need."

"No," Richie murmurs, "I'm fine."

"Okay. I'll just be through in my room, then."

Richie watches him walk towards his bedroom door and feels panic wash over him like a tide. "Wait," he says, and his voice is quiet enough to be ignored but Eddie stops moving and stares at him. "Please don't leave," he says, and maybe it's the dark obscuring Eddie's face or maybe it's the residual fear from his dream, but Richie doesn't have it in him to feel embarrassed at how needy he sounds, how pathetic this situation is.

Eddie doesn't make fun of him; he just walks back to Richie and slides himself under the covers like it's the most natural thing in the world, and then they're face-to-face, and Richie's eyes have adjusted just enough to the dark that he can see the curved outline of Eddie's temple and cheekbone against the black, the rough layer of stubble that he's forgotten to shave along his jawline and the tired bags beneath his eyes. "It's okay, Rich," he says softly, "I understand. I thought you were dead, too."

"It was real," Richie whispers.

"I know."

"You - Eddie, I had to - they wouldn't let me take you -" 

Eddie reaches out and pulls him into a gentle hug, one that doesn't jostle Richie's hip, just the slight pressure and warmth of an arm across his torso and Eddie's head against the side of his. "We're gonna be okay," Eddie says, and Richie can feel his lips moving against the sensitive skin where his jaw joins his neck.

Richie turns his head and they're so close that his throat shuts off. Without his glasses the picture is blurry, but he can see Eddie's eyes unbearably close to his, feel the hotness of his breath. "I can't lose you," Richie admits. The words seem so heavy. It's like a confession, he realises; because of course he would mourn anyone who died, but he _ can't _ lose Eddie, can't live with the thought of it. He's still trembling slightly.

"Well," Eddie whispers, "I can't lose you, either."

Richie's not entirely sure who moves, but there was only an inch or two of space to cover anyway, and then they're kissing very gently, like they're both scared. It's too much. Eddie's lips are soft and he's warm where he's pressed against Richie, and his mouth tastes of mint toothpaste. He breaks away after only a few moments. Richie wants to kiss him again, but also can't bare the thought because it's too _ much_, all too much, and every possible human emotion seems to be climbing up in his chest and threatening to choke him.

They stare at each other. The don't speak. After a while, all the exertion seems to catch up with Richie and he's falling alseep despite himself, feeling the darkness and quiet pressing in, but even as he drifts away he can still feel Eddie's arm over his chest.

~*~*~

In the light of day, Eddie Kaspbrak is a coward, and slips out of Richie's bed while he's still snoring. Then he paces around the kitchen, makes himself a coffee, washes up the coffee mug, counts all the mugs in the house (there are 11) and the cutlery (6 of everything, apart from teaspoons, of which there are only 5) and the plates (6 again).

He's spent his whole life feeling scared to some degree. There have always been threats, real or imagined. Disease. Illness, injury, broken bones and cuts. Allergies and asthma. HIV and AIDS and Swine Flu and Ebola. Alien clowns that hide in the sewer. His feelings for Richie Tozier.

He wishes he had his inhaler.

What if last night was a fluke? A spur of the moment gesture because Richie was scared? Eddie can't see any real reason why Richie would want him; he's paranoid and irritating, he's probably unemployed and technically homeless, he's not especially good-looking and he's _ definitely _ not charismatic enough to make up for it. He's gotta be any sane person's worst nightmare. Richie is famous - famous enough that even Eddie, whose pop culture knowledge was dated in the '80s, has heard of him - and okay, maybe the supermodel girlfriends weren't real, but no doubt there's plenty of attractive, successful gay men who would die for a chance to date Richie Tozier. Why on Earth would he settle for Eddie?

By the time Richie calls for him, Eddie's had his third cup of coffee and firmly plans to pretend that nothing happened, or that it was normal, or that it meant nothing to him. Whichever seems more convincing. Richie watches him very carefully and fuck, Eddie doesn't know what it means, but they joke and dodge around the topic and he relaxes enough that he doesn't have a panic attack when he lifts Richie out of bed and half-carries him to the bathroom, so at least that's something. Then he makes breakfast, and cleans up after breakfast, and when he gets a call from Beverly he almost jumps out of his skin because apparently he's still on edge. "What is it?" he says.

"Hello to you too, Eddie." Beverly sounds like she's in public; there's the high-pitched sound of children's chatter somewhere in the background, and maybe the faint roar of cars. "I just thought I'd check up on you and Richie."

"We're fine. Well, still in Derry, but fine."

"How's his hip?"

Eddie grimaces. He knows he's not been a good friend when it comes to helping with Richie's injury; it's just another item in his long list of faults. If Ben or Mike or Bill or Bev were here - anyone other than Eddie - they'd be more useful. They wouldn't be scared of a replacement bone. "It's all going according to schedule," he says, and tries not to think too hard about what he's actually talking about. "It's taking longer to heal than a normal hip replacement, 'cause y'know, it was really traumatic, but he can walk a little bit now."

"That's good." Bev pauses. "So, how long are you two staying?"

Eddie knows that there's no way Richie can hear this conversation over the blaring of the TV in the living room, but he still lowers his voice. "I don't know. I have no plans and no idea what's happening."

"Haven't you two talked about it?"

"Things are kinda tense right now, Bev."

"Tense?"

Eddie sighs. "You know how I said Richie was the straightest guy I knew?"

"And I gently mocked you for it, yeah."

"Well, I may ever-so-slightly have kissed him last night and fallen asleep in the same bed, and then woken up before him and kinda ditched and pretended it didn't happen? And now I really don't know where we stand -"

"Jesus," Beverly says, "I should've called sooner."

"It's fine, Bev. You've got your own stuff going on. How's life with Ben?"

"I only arrived a few hours ago," she says, and then they talk for a while about her life, how she's been put in touch with a lawyer who thinks she might be able to get some money of her own from the divorce settlement, how Ben's been very sweet and she thinks she loves him, but sometimes she still flinches when he moves too fast, how she's beginning to feel more like her old self now she doesn't have the threat of Tom looming over her. Eddie is happy for her. It's sad that they've had to wait for so long in their lives before they found happiness, but at least Bev seems to be getting there now. "Listen, Eddie, before I go," she says, "I know it's none of my business, but I want you and Richie to be happy, and I really think you should talk to him."

"I'll try," Eddie promises. "Do you wanna speak to Richie?"

"No, I'd better help Ben with this paperwork. I've been gossiping too long already. Tell him hi from me, though."

"I will."

She disconnects, and Eddie tastes the anxiety in his throat, and hears the noise of the TV, and walks through into the living room.

Richie was right when he called Eddie brave, down in the sewers; if you define bravery as overcoming fear, rather than a lack of fear, Eddie must be the bravest person on the planet because he feels scared half the time and ploughs ahead anyway. That's how he manages to walk over to Richie, even though he feels like shit and he'd rather run away to the other end of the country than have this discussion.

"Hey," he says, and settles onto the couch beside Richie. "I just got off the phone with Bev. She says hi."

Richie turns to face him, and he looks tired. He always looks tired - they did fight an alien clown, and Richie did go through major surgery - but today he seems especially worn, although he still manages a grin for Eddie. "She's missing me already," he says, "I'm not surprised. Did she have any news?"

"Just that she's arrived at Ben's, and she's sorting out her divorce."

"Sweet."

"Are you…" Eddie trails off. Shuffles around a bit. The TV is still far too loud for his liking, and this whole situation is so _ awkward _, it's just like being his teenage self again and trying to deal with his feelings for Richie back then, only now everything seems to matter more. "Are you okay, Rich?"

"Yeah man, I'll tell if you I need anything."

Eddie swallows. "I mean after last night."

Finally, he seems to get Richie's attention. "So we're doing this?" Richie asks. "Like, we're having a conversation? 'Cause I'm perfectly happy to _ never _have a conversation and live emotionally repressed forever, if you are. Forget it happened."

"No, Richie, I think we should talk."

"Fine. I'm sorry, okay?"

Eddie presses his lips together. "You don't have to be sorry, I just -"

Richie seems to fold himself up, as much as possible with his dodgy hip, and the distance between the two of them on the couch grows. "I know I've been too clingy," he says. "Shit, Eddie, I've basically kidnapped you and forced you to stay in fucking Derry of all places to work as my nursemaid."

"Yeah, you asshole, how dare you get yourself badly injured while saving my life?" Eddie asks, his voice thick with sarcasm. "I don't think I can forgive you."

"Fuck off, I'm being serious for once. I'm sorry. And I know I'm being weird and over attached and I _ know _ you don't want that and like, I don't even know what I'm fucking doing, Eds, but I swear -"

"Hang on," Eddie interrupts, "what do you mean, you know I don't want that? When have I said I don't want that?"

"Oh," says Richie, "I suppose it's your dream to have a middle-aged comedian with a receding hairline and the world's worst sense of humour become emotionally dependant on you?"

"I don't mind! Hell, Richie, we've both been a bit co-dependent and weird, it's not just you. It's okay."

Richie unfolds a bit, which is good, but he also looms closer to Eddie, and shit, he'd forgotten how intense everything felt when Richie was near him. He'd forgotten how strong the instinct to reach out and touch was. "What if it's more than that?" Richie asks. "What if I want more than that, and I always have, ever since we were fucking kids? What are you gonna say then, Kaspbrak?"

"I'd say maybe it's the same for me." Eddie's voice has gone low and he feels so itchy and tense and nervous, like he's on fire, and the stab wound in his cheek is burning. "I'd say that the fucking _ sight _ of you was enough to make me want to leave my wife, Richie Tozier, I'd say that even without the literal alien monster that we killed you _ still _ would've managed to turn my life upside down, I'd say -"

Whatever Eddie is going to say is interrupted by Richie pushing even closer into his personal space, and suddenly Eddie is holding his breath, heart going ten to the dozen. "Just to warn you," Richie says, "I'm gonna kiss you now."

"Oh," says Eddie, "yeah, sounds good."

It feels nice kissing Richie. Nicer than he'd expected, more natural, less daunting. They seem to slot together easily. Maybe it's formative years spent pushing each other around, or maybe they're just complementary shapes, but Richie seems so much more natural than Myra ever did.

It's easy to get lost in the moment, but Richie pulls back after a minute or two, and looks into Eddie's face, questioning. "Are you sure?" he asks. "Cause I'm gonna be real, if we go down this road and you decide I'm actually too annoying or ugly or old or whatever and you dump me, I might literally die."

"Yes. Are _ you _ sure? I don't exactly have much going for me, Rich."

Richie gasps in mock horror. "Don't say such things, Eddie! You're the cutest piece of ass to ever come out of Derry."

"I don't think you can describe a man in his forties as _ cute _ -"

"I can if it's you," says Richie, and then Eddie can't argue because they're kissing again. 

~*~*~

It takes two weeks, but Eddie calls Myra again. It's a longer call than his last one, as he tries to explain himself and Myra shouts over the top of him and then he tries to shout over the top of her, ad infinitum. At one point she accuses him of secretly being gay the whole time and he almost wishes he was, because at least that would give him an _ excuse _, rather than forcing him to argue in circles for what feels like hours. He doesn't like arguing. It's fun with Richie, when they both know they're not serious, but actual confrontation makes him feel guilty and stressed. By the time he gets off the phone, he's exhausted.

"She's not happy," he says to Richie, who just snorts in response.

"Yeah, no shit."

"She says she's gonna keep the flat in NYC. I mean, it was hers before I moved in, so I guess that's fair."

"You were expecting that, right?"

"Yeah." Eddie flops down. "Doesn't make it suck less to be officially homeless, though."

"You can live with me as long as you want, Eds."

"What, in L.A? My job's in New York."

Richie shrugs. "Do what you want. If you live in NYC, I guess I'll just have to fly out and meet you every couple of weeks."

Eddie hums. He knows that he's lost his job by now, anyway; people can't go missing for half a month without consequences. Why go back to New York? What's there for him, other than people he doesn't like and memories he doesn't care about? "You know what?" He says. "Fuck it. Let's go to L.A. together."

"Seriously?"

"I'm trying to actually live my life," Eddie tells him. "You know, not be ruled by anxiety. Do what I want and set my own priorities."

"Sweetheart, you sound like a self-help book."

"And you sound like a granny. Who says 'sweetheart', Richie? You're a fucking loser."

"Takes one to know one," says Richie, because his insults haven't improved since he was twelve, but they're both grinning.

~*~*~

It takes over two months before Richie can walk with something resembling his former grace, and he still needs crutches for long distances, but at least his recovery is on track.

"It's fucking bullshit," he complains over their first official Losers dinner (not counting the Chinese disaster back in Derry). Everyone's here, except Bill because he's doing some fancy promo for his new film, but he promised he'd Skype them later in the evening. Richie is already two beers down and their food hasn't even arrived yet. "Like, there's a whole list of things I'm not allowed to do. I'm not allowed to _ twist _ my hip. Can you believe that? Do you even fucking realise how much hip twisting goes into, like, a single day of normal human activity?"

"I do realise," Eddie says, and it's a bit too crowded in the booth and he's half on Richie's lap (good side, of course), his other shoulder squished into Mike's, but he's happy and warm and there's nothing on the menu that he's allergic to. "I realise because you've spent the whole last week complaining about it at every opportunity."

"You love my complaining, though."

Eddie rolls his eyes. "I really don't."

Beverly laughs at them as Richie pokes his side and Eddie bats him away. "I can't believe you two finally sorted your shit out," she says, "I thought you'd dance around each other until the end of time."

"Says you, January Embers," Richie shoots back. "At least we're not so disgustingly romantic that we've bought ourselves a dog. Like, come on, can you get any grosser?"

"I'm allergic to dogs," says Eddie, "and they're full of bacteria, anyway. Did you know that owning a dog changes your whole internal ecosystem?"

"Okay," Mike says, "enough about internal ecosystems, our food's arriving and I don't need to hear Eddie's stories about the fifty different strains of dog bacteria that Ben and Bev now have."

Ben sighs. "You just wanna talk more about the Grand Canyon."

"It was a transformative experience!"

Their food arrives just as Mike launches into an explanation of the Grand Canyon and the importance of National Parks. It's already dark outside, but they'll be talking around the table until the restaurant closes, and then driving back to Eddie and Richie's flat, and then they'll call Bill and no doubt talk for a few _ more _ hours, and everything, at least for now, is going to be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr is [xenixat](http://xenixat.tumblr.com) :^)


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